


two months in texas

by mariokartprince (technicalViolist)



Series: the in between [2]
Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: F/M, Poetic, look at these witty assholes, musical accompaniment, they are Not siblings, this was supposed to be happy godammit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-07-16 15:46:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7274146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/technicalViolist/pseuds/mariokartprince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the day she found you - sitting on a beach two months ago, sipping apple juice out of a plastic souvenir martini glass - was, objectively, the most important day of your life.</p><p>you have (not) regretted it ever since.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> alrighty folks we're strolling down chronological lane now
> 
> are you ready for this deliriously sicknasty shitbiz
> 
> btw you might wanna read the first fic in the series for the full Nostalgia™ effect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> your reading experience will be greatly enhanced if you open [Abrasive by Ratatat](http://www.infinitelooper.com/?v=LCUiTYm-4LI) in a new tab while you read

 

 

> _the skies were warm with the orange tint of nostalgia. life was good._
> 
> _she was smiling, then._

mission time - negative 4 years.

tick. tock. tick. tock. you’re outracing dawn with neon red lights and mainlining life with a smile. grooving with the rhythm of this upbeat city, there's basically nothing you can't do. you're kind of hot shit, like, the kind even the street sweepers won't touch 'cause you'll just light the whole joint on fire. regardless of your newfound hotshot self-esteem, the beat switched on you two months back (dick move, if you do say so yourself) and suddenly, you’re not dancing to just your own tune anymore.

 

not sure how or where it happened, but you do know exactly when and who.

 

you have the unfortunate ability to remember your entire life - day by hour by minute. every tick-tocking second your heart’s been pumping double time on this earth is coded into your very genes; you couldn’t forget it if you tried. you keep time by moments, by snare hits on 102.7 every morning, by the click of her heels on linoleum and oh, did you mention? you’ve got a tiny (disgusting huge) crush on the goth chick.

 

she’s all fliud grace and smartass little smirks and highfalutin syntax and Barcadi at noon. refined, overpriced tortellini for lunch on a marble balcony in Italy, and lilac lightning flashing staccato daytime against the dark. petite hourglass figure of murder disguised with black lipstick and a dangerous pair of knitting needles. she’s fucking awful. you feel almost seasick with want.

 

the day she found you - sitting on a beach two months ago, sipping apple juice out of a plastic souvenir martini glass - was, objectively, the most important day of your life. oh, sure, you knew each other already. she graduated top of your class in high school, and you won some bullshit award for shitting out genuis photography for four years straight, so you were already aquainted. no one, least of all you, actually expected to actually talk to her in person after that. she was...almost a mythical figure; some deity of the written arts that would never willingly deign to speak to a plebian such as yourself.

 

imagine your surprise when she snatched the drink out your hand, spiked it with something from a purple flask, and threw it back without a wince.

 


	2. I. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> recommended listening of the hour: [ Oh, Cruel Darkness Embrace Me by IAMX](http://www.infinitelooper.com/?v=IJMmkAlx0lI&p=n)

If a madman were to hold a loaded gun to your head and shriek at you to sum up your life’s story in 6 words or less, you would laughingly admit poetry has never been your forte. Critics in the wings beg to differ. A few outright contradict you, despite the pointlessness of such an act in this hypothetical mental scenario. According to those impassioned few, your birth was a divine act of God Himself, and every subsequent step you take on this unworthy earth is a perfect piece of poetry all on its own.

Oh, sweet flattery. From a certain point of view, one could say it is the most attractive way to get a metaphorical knife lodged in your back.

You would know.

Your name is Rose Lalonde, and you are supremely disappointed.

On some super-conscious level, you recognize the primary source of disillusionment is your own immature ego demanding more than life could possibly offer a young, idealistic mind. You refuse to acknowledge this level, preferring daytime lies, cocktails, and biting sarcasm. Your vices are obvious, and you use them as strengths. On the other hand, you will, however unwillingly, acknowledge your semi-conscious visions of fate untold tap-dancing their way through your subconscious when they think you aren't looking. You do not like what you see there, as a lack of control is highly unfashionable in your world. Occasionally, you do not like what you hear, but the eltrich whispers of that arena only bore you.

They are tantalizing entities, but you cannot help but feel something is missing from the overall experience. Your mind recalls white text and black dresses before that train of thought is violently derailed into a sterilizing tidal pool of denial. Your chest is not heaving. Your mind is most certainly not numb.

You do not have a problem. You are far too busy for that.

You turn on the TV. Soundbites of processed, pre-packaged information float through your tipsy consciousness, but you are most definitely too drunk for this shit. Luckily, your recovery speed is generally impeccable and in the morning you will be _fine_. Right on time, you will decode some messages of the media and accidentally click the bio of some new assistant director in Los Angeles, but you will not recognize these omens for what they truly are: signs of a new age. Tomorrow will be, objectively speaking, the most important day of your life.

Static crackles on the screen. _The death of meaning, martyrdom for cheap, and ½ off Betty Crocker™ brand snacks at your local supermarket, all in next week's forecast,_ the anchors’ plastic, forced smiles seem to say. You frown, and turn off the television.

You dream of sandy hair, sunglasses, and for some odd reason, a grandfather clock. Naturally, as such such things generally go, you forget the dream immediately. It is alright, the critics in the wings say. You tell them to shut the fuck up. Patience, they whisper. You cackle like you're dying. You are _so very tired_ of waiting. The critics frown slightly, and continue their paradoxical existence.

If the vodka bottle seems a bit less full than it was yesterday, they certainly do not comment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rose isn't ok yall


	3. commercial break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is your corporate sponsored free time break

ok so

quick question

i would v much appreciate feedback but ya don't have to

1\. how do yall like the style of this fic cause i'm 100% bullshitting everything

2\. how do you think alpha dave and rose's story should go or end or whatever

3\. what's the shittiest pun you can think of

cause like i have a shit ton of world building done for this but no actual plot lmao


	4. II. chromatic reflex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song of the hour: [Cream on Chrome by Ratatat](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xlcywgEMuGI)

_ act 1, scene 1 _

_ two months ago _

 

“Holy  _ goddamn _ mother of all  _ fucking _ shit, do you even know how rare apple juice is in this economy. What the _ hell  _ is wrong with-”

 

“You know, Strider, for someone as astutely observant as yourself, one would think the first comment out of your mouth wouldn’t be complaining about an easily replaceable glass of juice. There’s a vendor giving them out for free ten feet away.”

 

You, of course, were royally fucking offended. You were just trying to have a relaxing break from the stress-filled hell that is your job, and then this dishonorable thief wearing goddamn wedge heels on a  _ beach _ comes along looking more smug than the kleptomaniac cat in the alcoholic cream and takes your precious juice? Hell no. Whole Foods apple juice is expensive.

 

(Only later do you bother to question why you didn’t immediately panic when she knew your name. It just seemed...natural, at the time.)

 

You leaned back in the shitty beach-lawn-chair-thing and gave her the most sarcastic angle of eyebrow you could manage over the shades. “First the fuck of all, my juice is organic. Homemade. I do not fall for mainstream corporate America’s lies and I will not drink the free apple juice of despair. Second, who the hell are you?”

 

She raised a delicately arched eyebrow back. You knew that look. It’s the ‘are you fucking serious dude’ look. “Really? I would have thought even  _ you  _ would have followed the latest news in the creative writing world, on top of our previous mutual association. Do you honestly not recognize me?” she asked all wide-eyed faux-innocence, sipping your now-alcoholic apple juice.

You squinted. You didn’t have time for this. However, the pretentious-ass wording and the black lipstick felt familiar. “This may be hard to believe, but I do not actually know you. I also appreciate the veiled insults to my intelligence, I really do, but I don’t have time for ‘em. Drop ‘em off at 420 suck-my-ass lane and I’ll be sure to get to it eventually.” you drawled, trying not to show how irritated you were.

 

“Do you always respond to innocent strangers with this much vitriol?” she asked, chuckling lowly like you just made the best damn joke in the world.

 

Screw irritated, you’re getting pissed. “ _ Innocent? _ Do you know what you just did? I’m just rightfully salty as hell because  _ goddamn,  _ do you  _ know  _ how difficult it is to juice apples.  _ Apples.  _ No one even - no one fucking juices apples because it’s fucking stupid and here you go, stealin’ the last of mine,” you interrupted, keeping your gaze trained on the gorgeous turquoise and tan of the beach. “I worked  _ hard  _ for that.”

 

A beat passed. “The very picture of diligence, aren’t you.”

 

Your blood pressure spiked. “Duh, the fuck do you think I’ve been trying to say this whole time?”

 

“That you have a deep-seated need to entertain everyone  _ constantly,  _ likely as a result of having few genuine friends growing up?” 

 

That.

Was completely uncalled for. You already have to deal with having a minimum wage job, an unpaid internship, unreasonble customers frying your nerves to shreds everyday, weird internet fangirls, and now this. Oh, you  _ definitely  _ remembered who this chick was now. You weren’t sure before, but that comment sealed the deal. Question is, why is she trying to piss you off? Weren’t you two friends? 

 

“Uh, holy shit, it’s Dr. Phil! I didn’t realize it was you!” you exclaimed with the enthusiastic sarcasm of those truly done with life. “What’s your fucking point, Lily?”

 

She leaned back, smirking slightly. “So you  _ do  _ remember me. A pleasure to make your acquaintance again, Dave. And I apologize. That comment was...somewhat unwarranted.”

 

“ _ Somewhat  _ unwarranted. Yeah, maybe a little. I hope you fall in those heels, you goddamn annoyance,” you snapped, although your anger was fading to simple exasperation. This chick, you swear to god. “Man - what the hell do you even want from me  this time ? Like, of all times for a heartfelt reunion, why choose now? I’m kind of busy doing precisely jack shit with my time, and you’re ruining my vibes. What gives, bro?”

 

She stared at you evenly, staying perfectly still. For one very odd moment, you got the distinct impression of everything around the two of you suddenly running on fast forward like a forgotten game of sims played by idiots, with only the two of you stuck in a shallow microcosm of normality; a small, peaceful bout of calm at the very center of a grand, cosmic hurricane.

 

Her next words blew your fucking mind.

 

“Hey, did you know that this fanfic is  _ actually  _ more like a liveblog than a story?”

 

You suddenly understand nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this ending doesn't make sense because i finished it when i was having a massive psychotic breakdown lmao


	5. III. misplaced mercy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> omg double upd8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song of the hour: [For You by Fyfe](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MCto5tBw37Y)

mission time - -4.5 years

melancholy droplets fall pitter-patter-pat against the coffee shop window and draw the dim, cloudy light into strange streaks over your long-cold cup of expresso. you hear your phone chime some old jingle you faintly remember from elementary school from buried somewhere under the monumental pile of unfinished drafts and useless ideas scattering the table. you sigh. your headphones blast shitty emo break up songs far louder than really is healthy or normal for a person like you, but it’s a little difficult to keep up your personal aesthetic when your entire life is just a fragile pile of sticks waiting for the next wind to knock it all over and leave you stranded.

now, don’t be fooled. you’re completely fine. you’ve got it handled. you don’t exactly care, it’s just. it’s a bit hard to stay focused when your world could spiral down into absolute shit between this paycheck and the next. 

you  _ can’t  _ care, because if you began to give a single iota of a shit about your situation, you’d start  _ thinking  _ and then you’d start  _ realizing _ and then maybe you’d even consider that even  _ moving  _ to LA was just a giant, impulsive mistake, just like –

nothing.

it’s fine. 

besides. not like there’s much for you to go back to.

you heave a sigh and sip at the expresso. you’re becoming accustomed to the bitter taste of coffee left to cool for 40 minutes too long. 34 hours straight hours without sleep, and this miraculous little café 2 blocks down from your shitty but cheap apartment has become your sanctuary, your home away from home. you think the baristas are starting to take pity on you – your coffee has begun to magically refill itself when you’re too absorbed in your work to notice. how sweet of them. 

you shake yourself out your reverie, and turn back to the 5th draft of the only script you’ve ever actually attempted to finish. despite your best efforts and a good portion of your sanity, your plot seems dull, characters flat, dialogue cliché. you are slowly coming to despise nearly every aspect of your life, and yet. somehow, you know you won’t complain about it. some phantom memory of a person you’ve never met keeps checking your thoughts, keeping you grateful for what little you do have. after all, you _are_ still alive. you’re alive, you’re a (mostly) functioning adult, you even remember to do all the usual hygiene routines every morning and if you’re being honest with yourself, this tiny little life of yours is more than a little pathetic but – it’s _something,_ at least.

you sip muddy bean water, and contemplate the theoretical merits of misplaced gratitude, of a little light of vigilance burning in the dark. you continue. 


End file.
